Care for the Careless
by Zana Zira
Summary: Season 5: Just because Dean's the older brother doesn't mean he always knows more than Sam. This seems to be doubly true when it comes to food because somehow, despite having to take care of himself and Sam for their entire childhoods, Dean seems to have forgotten about things like expiration dates since he hit thirty. Sick!Dean, Annoyed/Caring!Sam. Written for a prompt on LJ.


**Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. Sadly, I do not own any of these guys.**

**A/N: This was written for a prompt on LJ. The prompt was as follows:**

"_Has anyone else heard of that thing where people with different blood types have different dietary preferences? I don't totally believe in it, but oh man is the idea sure cute. For example... blood type O is very "meat and potatoes", prefers a lot of protein and heavy/savory foods, whereas blood type A is more sensitive and drawn to organic, natural foods (lots of vegetables, nuts, etc.) and is prone to feeling a little sick after eating a lot of processed foods._

_Sound familiar? Anyway, I keep thinking about that time in "Dog Dean Afternoon" when Dean made a reference to Sam having a sensitive stomach aaaand, man, I don't have much of an idea on where I'm going with this but maybe if someone wants to play around with the idea... that would be so_ _cool..._"

* * *

Sometimes, Sam thought, it was really nice to know a hunter who had an actual house instead of living out of crappy motel rooms or the back of a van. It was even better when that hunter actually considered them family the way Bobby Singer did, because it meant that whenever they were in the area in between hunts, like they were now, they were always guaranteed a place to stay that wasn't infested with mice or roaches or motel owners who would shoot out the Impala's windows if they weren't gone by checkout. Having an angel ally was nice, but Bobby definitely trumped Castiel when it came to basic comforts.

This time around, they actually had Bobby's house all to themselves. The older hunter had gotten called almost as soon as they arrived at five o'clock that evening, and he'd taken off to bail out a fellow hunter who'd been a little too careless with his breaking and entering and landed himself in jail.

"Help yourself to whatever you can find," Bobby had called over his shoulder as he walked out the door with his "FBI" suit neatly folded in a garment bag. "Ain't many channels on the T.V., but there's food in the fridge and enough books to keep you readin' until you're in your fifties. And don't break anything, ya idjits!" he added as he saw Dean reaching for a precariously-perched object shaped like some kind of small goat's horn. Dean quickly retracted his hand with a sheepish grin, and Bobby rolled his eyes before slamming the door behind him.

"Well, whatcha wanna do now, Sammy?" Dean asked, flopping down on the couch with a quiet "oof" and flipping through Bobby's few, very static-filled channels with a bored expression on his face.

"I don't know about you, but I'm taking a shower," Sam said, gesturing to his dirty and still slightly damp clothes. "I can still smell that corpse we burned six hours ago on me."

"You probably just got some of the ashes up your nose," Dean said, grinning when Sam subconsciously sniffed and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Thanks for that image Dean. Seriously, thanks."

"You're welcome, Princess!" Dean called after him as he started up the stairs. Sam just huffed and strode the rest of the way into the upstairs bathroom, closing the door and cutting off his brother's obnoxious laughter.

When Sam walked into the kitchen almost a half-hour later, feeling clean and in a much better mood, he found Dean, or rather Dean's denim-clad butt, hanging out in front of the fridge while the rest of him rifled around inside for something to eat.

"You trying to get to China through there or something?" Sam asked when Dean leaned even further toward the back, and he chuckled when he saw his brother jump and heard him curse as his head hit the shelf.

"Ow! Dammit, Sam!" Dean said as he stood back to his full height and rubbed the back of his head. "Warn a guy, huh?"

"And what fun would that be, exactly?"

"Bitch. Just for that, I don't think I'll share this sweet 'n sour chicken I found with you." He pulled a Styrofoam box out of the refrigerator, opening it and smelling the contents with a sigh of pleasure.

"Dean, I wouldn't eat that," Sam warned, seeing a tiny bit of yellow discoloration on one edge of the white rice in the container. "You don't know how old it is."

"We eat plenty of stuff when we don't know how old it is," Dean said with a shrug, putting the box in the microwave and setting it for a minute to start.

"Yeah, and I'm surprised we haven't gotten sick way more often than we do."

"It's mostly you who gets sick. I've got a stomach of steel," Dean said with a quick slap to his belly. "Guess you're just not cut out for all the manly food like I am, huh? Must be why you eat all that rabbit food all the time."

"That or I want my arteries to stay open past the age of forty," Sam retorted.

Dean crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow at his younger brother.

"Weren't you the one who said someone with my blood type can eat pretty much anything and be fine? It's not my fault you're A-negative, so why don't you and your delicate little tummy stop trying bring me down just 'cause you can't eat this stuff?"

Sam sighed, wishing he'd never bothered to share the information he'd found about blood types and dietary preferences with Dean. He had only read it for fun, knowing most of it was probably BS with a little bit of truth, but Dean had of course latched onto the "O blood types eat a lot of meat and potatoes, and not so many vegetables," and accepted the entire thing as the gospel truth. He'd also been annoying Sam to death at every meal ever since.

"You know, just because I told you about that whole 'blood type diet' thing last week doesn't mean you can just eat whatever you want now. And having A-type blood doesn't make me Chinese food-intolerant, Dean, just like having O-negative blood doesn't mean you're immune to food poisoning. Besides, none of those theories are even proven yet."

"Yeah, yeah, I know that," Dean said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he pulled the now steaming container out of the microwave. "But I'm telling you, there's nothing wrong with this food, Sammy." He took a large bite of tempura chicken slathered in gooey sauce just to prove his point. "There are plenty of canned veggies in the pantry you can eat if my dinner bothers you so much."

Sam shook his head and sighed, not willing to admit to Dean that he'd already been planning exactly that. "Alright. But don't come crying to me in the middle of the night when you wind up with _E. coli_."

Dean took another bite of chicken and scowled at Sam, making his way into Bobby's living room with his treasured food in his hands. "Eat me, bitch."

* * *

It wasn't long after dinner when Sam and Dean retired to bed. There hadn't been anything good on TV, and Sam was too afraid to mess up the delicately-balanced stacks of books everywhere to actually find one to read; Dean just wasn't interested in reading, period. They each took one of the twin beds in Bobby's upstairs guest room, which he had put in there once the two of them became frequent visitors in his home. Sam was grateful, because sleeping on the downstairs couch with his legs hanging over the footrest was really not good for his back.

Sam had been asleep for only a few hours when he woke up, blearily realizing that something wasn't right. He looked at the clock – it was only a little after midnight – and then over at Dean's bed, which made it apparent what the problem was. His brother was nowhere in sight. Figuring Dean had just gone to the bathroom, Sam flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, hoping his older brother would get back into the room so he could verify he was okay and go back to sleep. But when over fifteen minutes had passed and there was still no sign of Dean, Sam started to worry a little.

"Dean?" he called softly, getting out of bed and making his way to the dark hall. He strode barefoot down the old wooden floor toward the bathroom, where he saw that the light was indeed on under the door. But there was no sound from inside, and it wasn't like Dean to stay in there for more than a couple minutes at a time. Now sure he knew what was going on, Sam made his way to the door and rapped lightly on it with his knuckles. "Dean? You in there?"

"Go 'way, Sammy…" Dean growled from the other side.

Sam grinned in spite of himself. "What was that you were saying about having a stomach of steel?" Sometimes Dean was really an idiot. When all Sam heard was a pitiful moan from behind the door, though, his smile faded instantly. That didn't sound good. "Dean? I'm coming in, okay?"

"Mmhmm…"

The door was unlocked when he turned the knob, which was almost unheard of for someone as paranoid as Dean. Dreading what he might find, Sam pushed open the old wooden door, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness that contrasted with the blackness of the hall. Once he could see again, he immediately dropped down to kneel beside his brother, who was curled up in a ball on his side next to the toilet. The smell of vomit permeated the entire room, making Sam feel a little nauseous himself, but he ignored it in favor of tending to his obviously sick older brother.

"Hey," Sam said gently, putting a hand on Dean's clammy, shivering shoulder and grimacing at the grayish pallor of his face. "You doin' okay?"

Dean glared at Sam and sat up, obviously about to answer with some kind of sarcastic retort, but he suddenly gagged and clapped a hand over his mouth, hanging his head back over the toilet just as another wave of vomit rushed up his throat to join whatever he'd thrown up earlier. Sam felt guilty for teasing him now, especially when Dean's arms curled up around his stomach and he began to moan with every breath he could manage to pull in between heaves. Not knowing what else to do, he just sat on the floor beside the older Winchester, rubbing circles on his sweaty back as he retched again and again until nothing but air was coming up.

"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered after he'd finally caught his breath. He spat into the water and turned his head away while Sam flushed it, trying to keep his breathing steady and hold whatever stomach contents he had left inside where they belonged.

"How long have you been in here?" Sam asked once he'd stood up and gotten a cup of water and a wet washcloth for Dean. The older hunter drained the cup of water in a few short gulps, glad to have the acrid taste out of his mouth, and held the washcloth to the back of his neck with a tiny sigh of relief.

"Couple hours, I think. I got up a little while after you fell asleep, and after about the third time I had to get out of bed and run in here I just decided to stay."

Sam turned to look at him, more than a little worried now. "After the third… Dean, how many times have you been sick now?"

"Uh… Six, I think. Yeah, pretty sure it's six."

Sam bit his lip nervously, noticing how Dean was shivering despite the sweat coating most of his skin. At least he _was _still sweating; that meant he wasn't dehydrated yet. "Okay. Well I don't think you should stay in here all night. You need to lay down and get covered up so you can rest."

"Yeah, but –" Dean's breath hitched and he swallowed convulsively, but managed to get himself under control again. "Don't think I'm done here yet."

"It's okay. There's a trashcan in there you can use. Are you good to stand?"

"Uh…" Dean attempted to get his legs under him, succeeding in making it almost to his feet before he started to fall and Sam had to haul him up by his armpits.

"Guess that's a 'no.' Okay, come on." He guided them both slowly down the hall, using the light from the bathroom door to help them see and feeling fairly happy that Dean was at least attempting to hold some of his weight while he leaned on Sam's larger frame. They'd almost made it to the doorway when Sam felt Dean sag against him, and he had to step forward and grab his brother by the shoulders to keep him from face-planting when he suddenly stumbled over his own feet.

"Dean, you okay?" he asked when he saw how Dean had suddenly closed his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line.

Dean swallowed hard, looking blearily up at Sam an instant before his eyes started to widen. "Sammy, I don –"

And that was all the warning either of them got before Dean suddenly retched harshly, puking up all the water and bile in his stomach down the front of Sam's shirt. Sam froze in place, blinking slowly as the disgustingness of what had just happened started to sink in, and Dean gaped at him in absolute horror.

"Oh God, Sammy, I'm sor –" And then he was heaving again, bent double as he pulled away from his little brother just enough to avoid getting him again. That snapped Sam out of his shock, and he hurriedly guided Dean into the bedroom, snatching up the trashcan from between the beds and plopping it into his lap just a second before he would have hurled all over the floor. With a shudder and a slight gag of his own, Sam carefully peeled off his soiled shirt, dropping it on the floor to worry about later when he cleaned up the mess in the hall.

By the time he'd found a clean shirt and changed into it, Dean was lying on his side on the bed, panting and groaning miserably as he curled into a ball with his arms wrapped around his middle. When he saw Sam coming to pick up the trashcan and rinse it out, he started to try to apologize, but Sam hushed him, sighing and pulling the comforter over his trembling brother instead.

"It's okay, Dean. I've done it to you before, too. Just try to get some sleep, okay? I'll be in here if you need something."

"Mmkay…" Dean mumbled sleepily, sounding much younger than his thirty-one years. Sam smiled and patted him on the shoulder, waiting until he was sure Dean was asleep before leaving the room to clean up the hall and the bathroom. The things he did for his brother sometimes… But it didn't matter. If it was for Dean, who had always been there for him when he needed it, then he'd be happy to do whatever he needed to.

And the next morning, when Bobby came home to find a still fairly miserable Dean curled up asleep under a blanket on the couch, head on Sam's lap and trashcan within easy reach on the floor, Sam didn't even bother to be embarrassed by how awkward the two of them probably looked right then. But he did make Bobby clean out the fridge. After all, since Dean always seemed to forget that he wasn't invincible, Sam was just going to have to take a few extra precautions for both of their sakes. And he was never going to share any info about blood type diets with Dean again.


End file.
